


the wilderness gave it to me

by ceserabeau



Series: the wilderness [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, Deputy Derek, Derek Comes Back, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Rimming, mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9091762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: When Stiles pictured Derek's return to Beacon Hills, he never imagined this: late night in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, Stiles in sweatpants and a shirt long overdue a wash, glancing left from the Captain Crunch and Lucky Charms to find Derek Hale, four feet away, pulling a box of muesli off the shelf.





	

There is a wolf in me. Fangs pointed for tearing gashes, a red tongue for raw meat. I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me. And I cannot let it go.

_\- All The Wilderness_

 

 

When Stiles pictured Derek's return to Beacon Hills, he never imagined this: late night in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, two days into spring break, Stiles in sweatpants and a shirt long overdue a wash, glancing left from the Captain Crunch and Lucky Charms to find Derek Hale, four feet away, pulling a box of muesli off the shelf. Derek catches his eye, offers him a quick curl of his mouth, soft and sweet, then he turns and walks away.

Stiles abandons his cereal and follows, down the canned food aisle, past the pasta and rice, around to the fresh produce. He catches up with Derek as he's carefully testing mangoes for ripeness. Stiles stares at him in disbelief.

“I didn't know you liked mango,” he says.

Derek glances up through his lashes. “That's what you're leading with?” he asks. “I was sure you were going to start yelling.”

It startles a laugh from Stiles. “I was going to,” he says. “But my brain's too tired to come up with anything.”

Derek nods in understanding. “Finals?”

Stiles pulls a face. “Yeah, junior year is kicking my ass.”

“UCLA right?”

Stiles nods slowly. He’s captured by the look on Derek’s face: pleased and proud, so unlike the Derek he used to know it takes him a long moment to process it. “How did you –”

“Isaac.”

Stiles blinks, surprised. “You guys talk?”

“He was my beta,” Derek points out. He looks down at the mango, still clenched in his hand. “Just because he’s Scott’s now doesn’t mean we can’t talk.”

Stiles rolls his eyes; if he has to live through a second round of Scott and Derek fighting over Isaac he’s going to scream. “I get it. But hey –” He takes the mango, replaces it with his phone. “Give me your number. Then you don’t have to go through Isaac to get information about me.”

Derek’s face does something complicated: surprised, nervous, annoyed, before it settles into something closed off and uneasy. That’s familiar to Stiles at least, a predictable Derek move from an unpredictable new Derek.

“Are you sticking around or not?” he asks before Derek can say no.

Derek’s eyes flick from the phone to his face and back again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

“Then give me your number.”

Derek’s jaw works, shoulders hunching and lowering, then slowly, carefully he taps his number in. When he looks up, he’s scowling hard, and Stiles’ heart stutters a little in shock.  

It’s been four years since Derek left. Four years of monsters and mayhem, a growing pack and territory, the steady ebb and flow of friendships, relationships. Four years, and Stiles didn't realise how much he'd missed Derek's stupid angry face until this very moment.

“Jesus,” he says, to cover the sound of his rabbiting pulse, “I would’ve thought you’d have figured out how to smile by now.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he does smile, that same soft thing. It suits him, better than any frown ever did. Then someone else leans across them for the mangoes, and Derek shuffles out of Stiles’ reach.

“I have to go,” he says. He slips Stiles’ phone back into his hand. “I’ll see you around.”

Stiles doesn’t want to let him go, not again, but he forces himself to nod and step away, watching silently as Derek moves towards the registers. “Hey,” he calls just before Derek disappears around the corner, “Sourwolf!”

Derek throws an exasperated look over his shoulder. “ _What_?”

“It's good to see you,” Stiles calls. He’s surprised by how much he means it.

 

 

Stiles makes the executive decision to keep Derek’s return a secret. It’s not like the last time, he tells himself, not like the Nogitsune, not like Donovan. It still sits in his stomach like a rock.

It takes three days before the secrecy finally gets too much. On Wednesday morning, when Dad’s left for work, he scrolls through his phone until he gets to Derek’s name in his contacts.

 _Are you going to tell them you’re back?_ he sends before he can overthink it.

There's no reply for a few hours. Stiles does some reading, a load of laundry, watches some TV. He's getting his clothes out of the dryer when he hears his phone buzz. It’s easy to pretend he’s not nervous when there’s no one around to hear his heart fluttering in his chest.

 _If you're going to yell_ , the text says, _at least do it in person_. Underneath is an address that Stiles doesn't recognise.

It leads to an apartment building in a nice part of town. Derek answers the door in basketball shorts and bare feet, a beer in hand. Stiles stares at his toes curling in the cream carpet.

“How do you get blood stains out of that?” he asks.

The smile Derek offers him is amused and more than a little fond. “I’ll let you know when it happens. Come in.”

Inside is so different to Derek’s old loft that Stiles does a double take. Everything is bright from the sun streaming through the windows, no shadowy corners or holes in the walls. It suits Derek somehow: he used to wear his rage like a well-fitting jacket, but now he seems softer, mellower. The years away from Beacon Hills have done him good.

“Okay,” Derek says as he settles down on the couch, “Let’s hear it.”

Stiles watches his fingers curling around the beer and feels suddenly adrift. Whatever words he'd planned in his head seem irrelevant now, faced with this new Derek in front of him.

“Come on,” Derek chides. “I know that face. I'm surprised it's taken you this long to start talking.”

Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then he dips down into the bundle of emotions that he’s kept trapped in his chest for a long time, until he feels the sharp stab of rage that he’s been associating with Derek for years.

“You left,” he says, and his voice is hard and angry. “You just vanished with Braeden and left us to clean up that mess with Kate and the berserkers. That was such a dick move, man. And then, so much happened after with –” Donovan's lifeless body, the revulsion in Scott’s eyes, Dad asking his name “– there was so much shit going on and you were gone. We needed you here and you were gone.”

Derek nods, a little shamefaced. “I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't watch anyone else get hurt because of me.”

“I get it,” Stiles says, “Believe me. This town is fucking brutal to live in. I wanted to leave so many times. So I don't blame you for that. I guess I just - I wish you'd let us know that you were leaving and where you were going. And that you'd kept in touch. With more than just Isaac.”

It feels good to finally say it aloud, all the things he’s been holding onto for so long, kept trapped behind his teeth when there was no one to say them to. Now they’re out in the open and it’s like a weight has been lifted from his chest.

“You done?” Derek asks, when he’s been silent for a long moment.

“Yeah, I'm done.” Stiles drops down onto the couch next to Derek. He feels loose, untethered. “Sorry. I've been thinking about that for a while.”

Derek passes him his beer, and Stiles takes a long drink, feels it wash over his tongue. He doesn’t like awkward silences, he’s still not good at them, but he doesn’t want to push, to pick at the fragile scab on such a deep wound.

“So what do you do all day?” he asks instead. “Sit around and drink beer?”

Derek huffs a laugh. “I have a job interview next week.”

“That's great.” Stiles passes the beer back to Derek, eyes the long line of his throat as he drinks. “So this is going to be permanent?”

“I want it to be,” Derek says. “I’m going to talk to Scott tomorrow.”

Stiles blinks at him. “That’s – that’s good.”

The Derek of old would never have reached out, too full of pride and resentment to even consider making peace with Scott. Derek offers him a small quirk of him lips, almost bashful, like he knows what Stiles is thinking.

Stiles grins back. The anger in his chest is dissipating, replaced by something else, something sweeter. His phone is buzzing somewhere, insistent and annoying, but it’s easy to ignore it with Derek sitting next to him, smiling like that, a line of warmth at his side.

 

 

Lydia only drinks coffee from one place in town, and Stiles swings by to pick her up a cup on his way to see her. He’s on his way out when he sees a shock of dark hair, a familiar set of shoulders: Derek, sitting in a big armchair at the back of the room, quietly nursing a coffee and reading a thick book.

Stiles should really leave him alone, but he’s never been that good at controlling his impulses. He slides into the chair opposite and stifles a laugh at Derek’s startled expression.

“Are you following me?”

Stiles shakes his head. “What are you reading?”

“Crime and Punishment.” Derek’s mouth ticks up at Stiles’ grimace. “I never used to get much time to read. I’m trying to catch up on the classics.”

Derek looks nervous, embarrassed, like he’s admitting a dirty secret, so Stiles grins at him. “I get it. I don’t think I’ve read anything other than textbooks and bestiaries in years.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching as Derek thumbs the pages of his book. “So, hey, if you don’t mind me asking, where did you go when you – when you left?”

“A lot of places.” Derek smiles at Stiles’ unimpressed noise. “I stayed with Braeden for a while. Did some hunting.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Oh, the irony: Derek Hale, big bad werewolf, becoming a _hunter_.

“Stop making that face,” Derek snaps. “It was the easiest option. I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

 _You could’ve come back_ , Stiles thinks, _you could’ve come home_. “Whatever, dude,” he says; “I’m not judging.”

Derek’s eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe him, but he keeps talking. “I went to see Cora too. She’s in Caracas now.”

Stiles remembers Cora, remembers her anger and her sharp tongue – but that was years ago, when everything was upside down, when they were constantly fighting for their lives. Maybe the sunshine has soothed her temper, made her mellow.

“She doing okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good. She’s happy.” There’s a soft smile curling Derek’s lips. “After that, I went back to New York.”

Stiles nods, trying not to lean forward, trying to not seem too interested, too invested. He’s so curious about all the things that have changed Derek, worn away his sharp edges. “What were you doing there?”

“I went back to college,” Derek says. “To finish my undergrad.”

Stiles would ask why he hadn’t finished before, but Derek’s face says it all, so raw and vulnerable: Laura, Peter, bodies in the woods, dragging him back to this town. Stiles sips his coffee, gives Derek a moment. He knows loss the way Derek knows loss, knows how it buries in deep and eats at you; he knows how much it hurts to dredge it up again.

It takes a long moment for Derek’s face to clear – then he looks up, focus snapping back to Stiles.

“What about you?” he asks. “What happened while I was away?”

He sounds curious, probably remembering Stiles’ outburst the other day. Just thinking about all those things sets Stiles teeth on edge.

“Oh, you know.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds wrong, cold and empty. The smile he drags up feels more like grimace. “The usual Beacon Hills bullshit.”

Derek tilts his head, staring at him. Stiles wonders what he’s seeing. He isn’t the same as when Derek left: he’s stronger, sharper, settled in his skin. He’s long since grown out of his awkward limbs and wide eyes; he taught himself how to be a wolf, vicious, dangerous, to protect his pack the way they protect him. He thinks Derek might be able to see that with the way he’s staring, like he knows all of Stiles’ secrets. He forces himself to get up, get away from Derek’s eyes.

“I should go. Got to get Lydia her coffee. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He tries to make his escape, but Derek’s hand closes around his wrist, warm against his skin. Stiles looks down at him, the long line of his nose, the flutter of his eyelashes, his eyes, still sharp and questioning. He steels himself for whatever Derek’s about to say, but in the end, Derek blinks and looks away.

“You shaved your hair again,” he says.

Stiles rubs a hand over his head, self-conscious; he took the razor to it a month back and it’s only a few inches now, short and sharp beneath his palm. “Yeah, a few times now. It’s too much effort to get it cut.”

“I like it.”

Stiles’ heart thumps heavily. “Thanks,” he says. It’s harder than it should be to disentangle himself from Derek’s grip. “Good luck with Scott. Let me know how it goes.”

Derek nods, eyes warm. “I will.”

He’s smiling that smile again, soft and sweet and _beautiful_ , and Stiles’ stares at it, at him, suddenly breathless. Who knew Derek Hale could smile like that?

He makes himself to leave before he does something stupid like kiss it off Derek’s face.

 

 

“Derek’s coming over,” Scott says a few days later when they’re setting up for the pack meeting.

Stiles schools his face into something that he hopes looks indifferent. “Oh?” 

Scott nods as he pulls beers from the fridge. “He’s back in town,” he says, and taps the cans nervously. “That okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Scott throws him an incredulous look. “Come on, dude. You were so mad at him.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, and turns away to put the pizzas in the oven. Obviously Derek didn’t spill the beans about their little reunion. “I’m over it.”

He’s saved from any more interrogation by the pack piling in, a wave of noise and movement. There’s a familiar swell of happiness at the sight of them: even after so many years, so much trouble, they’re still going strong.

Derek’s only minutes behind them and all eyes snap to him when he pauses in the doorway. He wears his uncertainty like a normal person would, let’s himself by seen rather than hiding behind anger and violence. The moment stretches, awkward and uncomfortable, until Isaac throws him a beer – and just like that it’s normal again, like Derek was there all along.

“So, where have you been?” Kira asks when he’s sat down on the couch, squeezed between Stiles and Isaac.

“I spent some time with Braeden,” Derek says. His thigh is warm against Stiles’, a long line of heat that presses back when Stiles nudges him. “Then I went to see Cora. And then back to New York.”

Lydia leans forward in her chair. “Did you join a pack?”

Derek doesn’t wince, but it’s a close thing. “No,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate, but Stiles can read it on his face: his pack has always been here, in this room.

The oven timer beeps, and Stiles takes mercy on Derek by dragging him to the kitchen to help. He puts Derek on pizza duty, and watches him carefully pull them out the oven and cut them up. It’s weird, weirdly domestic, and he looks away before hysterical laughter bubbles out his throat.

“You didn’t tell Scott,” Derek says quietly as Stiles is taking the plates from the cupboard.

“It wasn’t for me to tell.” Stiles listens to the noise from the other room, judges it safe to keep talking. “You guys have a good talk?”

“Yeah.”

Derek looks surprised by it. Stiles can understand that: he and Scott spent so long at each other’s throats that it’s hard to comprehend this new easiness in their relationship. But four years is a long time; Derek’s not the only one who’s changed.

“Does this mean you’re in the pack now?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “We’re working it out.”

Happiness balloons in Stiles’ chest; he blames it for why he pulls Derek into a hug. Derek doesn’t even protest, just lets Stiles hold him tight. He still smells the same: a faint hint of laundry detergent, the aftershave he’s been wearing for years.

“I really am glad you're back,” Stiles says into his neck.

Derek’s breath gusts warm over his ear. “Me too.”

It’s a long time before they pull away, staying close enough that Stiles can see the green of Derek’s eyes, a faint smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. _Dangerous territory_ , he thinks, and extracts himself from Derek’s grip.

“Take them in,” he says, pushing the pizzas across the counter. “They’ll start fighting if they don’t get fed. Wild animals, the lot of them.”

Derek’s mouth quirks at the corner like he’s holding in a laugh. “Like you’re any better,” he says, then picks up the food and leaves.

Stiles stares after him. His laugh is right there, bright and bubbly, but it’s trapped, caught behind the lump in his throat.

It’s like he’s slipped into the Twilight Zone. Derek Hale is here, in his house, with his pack, smiling and laughing and cracking jokes. It’s like the floor’s been pulled out from under him, and he doesn’t know how to find his feet.

In the end, he listens to the familiar noise in the other room – yelling for food, squabbles over the remote – and lets it wash over him as he leans against the counter and tries to calm the frantic pounding of his heart.

 

 

The pack gets together for drinks at the end of the week, commandeering the pool table at the back of Beacon Hill’s only bar for the evening. It’s easy to relax here, hidden from prying eyes, where they can talk and laugh without fear of being overheard. Times like this, they can almost pretend to be normal.

“Hey,” Malia says as Stiles is lining up his first shot, “Is that Derek?”

The shot goes wide, ball bouncing uselessly off the sides. “ _Really_?” Lydia hisses, kicking out at him from her stool. “I know I taught you how to calculate the angles.”

Stiles can’t answer, too busy turning towards the bar where Derek’s sitting, a beer in front of him, head tilted back to watch the game. Wordlessly he shoves his cue at Lydia andwalks over as casually as he can.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, as he slides into the gap next to Derek. “Since when did you like football?”

Derek turns towards him slowly, one eyebrow already raised. “I’ve always liked football. Just never had enough time to watch it.”

Stiles huffs a laugh. He knows all about that, remembers the long stretches of time when they were all too busy fighting monsters to do their homework or sit their exams or their college applications. It’s a miracle any of them got into college at all.

Derek shifts so that he’s facing Stiles; the way the light catches on his cheek, on his throat, makes Stiles’ stomach clench. “Since when did you get old enough to drink?” he asks.

“I turned 21 a month ago,” Stiles laughs. “Do you want to see my ID?”

He can practically see the wheels turning in Derek’s mind. “Has it really been that long?”

“Yeah, it has.”

Derek’s eyes flit over his face. Stiles wonders what expression he’s wearing that could make Derek’s brow furrow like that. But eventually he nods and reaches for his wallet.

“I guess I owe you a beer then.”

Stiles props an elbow on the bar as Derek orders, watches his mouth moving, his long fingers as they hand over the cash. Is this what it would have been like if Derek has stayed? Would they still be friends buying each other beer in a bar? Sooner or later he’s going to have to stop comparing them: Derek then and Derek now. Deep down he’s still the same person, even if everything about him seems to have changed.

The beer comes in cold glasses, and Derek clinks his against Stiles’. “Happy birthday,” he says. “Sorry I missed it.”

Stiles shakes his head, grins at him. “I’m sure you’ll make up for it.”

He means for it to sound joking, but he knows he misses the mark when Derek’s eyes go dark, hooded, and slide down to his mouth. They don’t look away when Stiles drinks; they follow his tongue when he licks the taste of beer from his lips.

“You want to –” Stiles bites his tongue on the proposition that almost slips out. “– come join us?

Derek’s eyes flick over the pool table, the pack hanging off each other, laughing loudly. “Maybe another time.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Enjoy your night.”

That’s his cue to leave, but it’s so hard with Derek looking at him like that. He wants to stay, wants to kiss him, wants to lick the beer from his lips. He forces himself to walk away with Derek’s eyes on him, heavy like a weight, burning like a brand.

 

 

When Derek said he had an interview, what he meant was he had an interview at the Sherriff’s station for the new deputy position. Stiles finds out when he stops by with lunch for Dad, and finds Derek manning the reception desk.

Stiles takes him in: his neatly combed hair, the ugly polyester shirt, the name badge on his chest. He always thought it would be him behind the desk one day, but Derek looks right there, like he was born to do it.

He knows he’s been standing there staring for too long when Derek makes an exasperated noise and finally looks up.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

Stiles shrugs, as casual as he can. “Maybe I like the view.”

He catches the flash of interest on Derek’s face before he schools it into something professional. “The view is busy,” he growls, gesturing at the paperwork he’s doing. “What did you want?”

“Well –”

“ _Stiles_ ,” a voice calls, and they both turn to look as Dad slams out of his office; “Where’s my –”

Dad stops suddenly, eyes darting between the two of them. Stiles knows that look; it’s the one Dad gave to Malia and to Lydia, to his first college boyfriend, and he knows the speech that comes next.

But it never comes. Dad just settles for glaring.

“Bring that salad over here,” he snaps.

Stiles scurries over and away before Dad can say anything else. When he gets back to the desk, Derek’s biting his lip, clamping down on a smile. “Next time you should bring me lunch too,” he says.

“I don’t know about that.” Stiles props an elbow on the desk and leans in a little closer, dropping his voice. “What do I get in return?”

To his surprise, Derek doesn’t pull away. “What did you have in mind?”

His voice is low, raspy, and Stiles feels a jolt of arousal. Oh, so many things: Derek touching him, fucking him; Derek bending him over the desk, over the hood of the Jeep; Derek’s mouth on his skin, on his cock, marking him for everyone to see.

He sees the moment Derek catches his scent: his nostrils flare, and Stiles waits for the inevitable disgust, but instead Derek’s eyes darken, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks hungry, _ravenous_ , like he’s ready to eat Stiles on the spot. Stiles stares, open-mouthed: this is what Derek looks like when he’s turned on.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Dad yells from across the room. “Stop flirting with my deputy.”

Stiles watches, fascinated, as a flush crawls over Derek’s cheeks. There’s nothing in his brain but putting his mouth to that burning skin and he leans over the desk before he realises what he’s doing. He can see Derek’s eyes widening, but all he can focus on is the hint of stubble prickling his lips, the soft skin underneath. His heart is pounding in his chest, more than loud enough for Derek to hear, but all he does is inhale sharply and twist towards Stiles. Stiles smiles, almost right against his mouth.

“See you later,” he whispers, and slowly, slowly pulls back.

If he jerks off later to the stunned look on Derek’s face – well, no one has to know.

 

 

Stiles hates the dark hours when Dad’s at work and the house is quiet. It reminds him too much of the Nogitsune crawling around his brain, when the silence was dangerous, when it wasn’t safe to sleep.

It’s safe now, but in this stillness he can’t bring himself to relax. He starts on his mountain of reading instead, barricading himself onto the bed with his laptop and notes. He’s so deep in his work that the heavy knocking makes him jump, hard enough to knock his book onto the floor. When he looks up, Derek has his head stuck through the open window.

“You never used to knock,” he says.

Derek takes is as permission to climb through. “Sorry,” he says, actually looking sheepish.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say I _minded_.”

Derek ignores him in favour of wandering around, investigating his bookshelf and his noticeboard. He’s wearing the same leather jacket he always used to wear and Stiles has an intense flashback to all the other times Derek’s been in his room, glaring and threatening, shoving him into walls, and growling, always growling.

“So,” Stiles drawls when the silence starts to feel oppressive, “What’s up?”

Derek looks up from the papers on his desk. His expression, heavy and knowing, makes Stiles’ stomach drop. He knows what’s coming, the rabbit hole this conversation is about to tumble down.

“Scott told me,” Derek says.

Even though he knew, Stiles still freezes, a deer in the headlights. “Told you what?”

“Theo.” Derek takes a halting step towards the bed, hands outstretched like he thinks Stiles is going to bolt. “Donovan. The Hunt.”

Stiles hates this, hates talking about them, all these things he normally pushes out of his mind so he can focus on life, on living, on being safe and sane in an unsafe, insane world. The laugh that tumbles out is verging on hysterical, too high and too loud. He can’t bring himself to look at Derek, at whatever’s on his face.

“Stiles.” Derek’s right up in his space, too close for comfort. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds bitter. “But it’s fine. I’m used to it. Beacon Hills will keep throwing freaky shit at me until it finally kills me or I kill myself. That’s just how it goes.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Derek growls. His hands are on him, holding tight enough to bruise. “Don’t say that. Not ever.”

Stiles finally looks up at him: there’s no pity in Derek’s face, but something fearful, an echo of what makes his own stomach twist.

“Promise me,” Derek says. “Stiles, promise me you won’t.”

Derek’s hands are heavy on his shoulders, and Stiles leans into the touch, desperately seeking its comfort. He focuses on it, the warmth of Derek’s palm through his shirt, the steady squeeze of his fingers.

“I won’t,” he croaks out. “Can’t leave you guys alone. Who knows what you’d get up to.”

Derek chokes out a laugh, wet around the edges, like the one bubbling up out of Stiles’ throat. He shoves the rest of Stiles’ stuff off the bed and sits down, pulling him in close. Stiles rests his head against Derek’s shoulder and breathes him in, sweat and detergent and _Derek_.

“I’m going to stay,” Derek says into his hair.

Stiles spares a thought for what Dad would do if he found his new deputy in his son’s bed; at this point, probably just roll his eyes. “Sure,” he mumbles. “Take your pants off though.”

Derek’s chest moves in what might be a laugh. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He gets up long enough to take them off and drape his jacket over the back of Stiles’ chair. Then he’s sliding under the covers with him, bare feet brushing against Stiles’ legs like a whisper. Any other situation and Stiles would be hard as a rock, all his teenage fantasies come to life. But there’s a lingering sadness in his chest, something that makes him want to curl up, something that makes him want to hide. He doesn’t know how to ask for Derek to touch him, for that little bit of comfort, but Derek has always been able to read him: he slides over, tucks himself to Stiles’ back, big spoon to his little spoon.

“Thanks,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek nudges at Stiles’ neck with his nose, breathes out a hot gust of air against his skin. “Go to sleep,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

He isn’t sure he’ll be able to fall asleep. Even these days, after years of peace in their territory, he still lies awake at night, mind stuck on replay of blood on his hands, bodies on the ground. But Derek’s a welcome warmth wrapped around him, body heat slowly seeping into him, letting him drift easily, before he finally slips, slides into a quiet darkness, one without nightmares.

In the morning, Derek’s gone like he was never there, but his jacket is still on the chair, a reminder. Stiles stares at it, confused, unsure of what to make of it, of last night, of Derek. He’s back in the Twilight Zone again, entirely off balance, the world sliding sideways into something new.

Or maybe it’s not new. Maybe this is who Derek’s always been, buried deep down under the anger and fear. Maybe this what _they’ve_ always been, drawn to each other, steadily circling closer and closer until this moment.

Maybe this is reality and everything is finally slotting into place.

 

 

Dad keeps a copy of the station’s schedule on his laptop, so when Stiles picks the lock on Derek’s front door and lets himself in, he knows he won’t have to wait for long.

If Derek’s surprised to see Stiles sprawled on his couch, barefoot and reading a book, when he gets home, he doesn’t show it. He’s still in his uniform; Stiles knows how cheap that polyester is, how rough is feels against skin, but Derek looks so good in it, it makes his breath catch. It’s almost too easy to go to him, to slide his hand around his neck and lean up to kiss him.

Derek tenses beneath his touch. For a second Stiles thinks he’s made a monumental mistake, he’s read this all wrong, but then Derek takes a shuddering breath and his mouth opens, fingers clenching on Stiles’ waist tight enough to bruise.

It’s good, _so good_ , better than he could have ever imagined: hot, wet, deep, tempered by the hint of Derek’s teeth, the steady clench of his fingers against his sides. Stiles eventually leans back to take a harsh breath. He makes himself look at Derek: at the splash of red across his cheeks, his deep dark eyes; god, he wants to kiss him again.

“Tell me I didn’t imagine this,” he says.

Derek’s breath gusts over his cheek. “You didn’t imagine it.”

“Good.” Stiles forces himself to step away from Derek’s hands. “Why don’t you get changed.”

Derek exhales sharply, then turns on his heel and leaves. It would be easy to follow, but in the end Stiles goes to the kitchen with the vague idea of getting some water. He ends up just standing and staring at the cupboard, trying to remember how to breathe.

He’s doesn’t realise Derek’s in the room until hands touch his waist, tentative, like he isn’t sure he’s has permission. Stiles presses back into them until Derek steps up behind him, hands sliding around, over his stomach, fingers callused and firm as they slip under his shirt to the soft skin beneath.

“How long have you wanted this?” he murmurs as Derek presses his nose behind his ear.

“Years.” Derek’s breath gusts warm over his skin. “Since that night in the pool.”

Stiles laughs, remembering the smell of chlorine, Derek looking like a wet cat. “That was a long time ago.”

“I realised I trusted you,” Derek says. He presses closer, like he wants to bury himself under Stiles’ skin. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Stiles reaches back to slide his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. “You never said anything. “

“You were –” Derek drops his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder and sucks in a deep breath. “Jesus, Stiles, you were sixteen and all I wanted to do was –”

“Was what?”

“Everything.” Derek rocks forward so Stiles can feel where he’s hard against his ass and it’s like a punch to the stomach, all his arousal coming to a sharp point at the feeling. “Kiss you and touch you and fuck you – I felt like such a fucking creep.”

Stiles laughs but it’s choked, high-pitched; he can barely focus with Derek grinding against him. “Must run in the family.”

Derek growls, the noise rumbling through him and into Stiles. “ _Don’t_ talk about Peter right now,” he says, then sets his teeth into Stiles’ neck.

Everything goes liquid inside him, a rush of heat, and Stiles grips the counter so he doesn’t stumble. God, he wants it, wants it like nothing else: Derek’s mark on him, right there where people can see, red and raw and shameless. He bares his throat for it.

Derek whines, following his teeth with his tongue. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes into Stiles’ skin. “Your smell, it makes me –”

He ruts up against him, desperate, and Stiles is too, his skin buzzing with it. He’s wanted this for so long and he doesn’t want this to stop, but he also wants Derek naked, wants his dick in his mouth, in his ass, wants everything _right fucking now_.

Faintly, he hears the rustle of fabric as Derek moves down, the heavy thud as he drops to his knees. Then his fingers are sliding into Stiles’ belt loops and pulling slowly, slowly until his pants and boxers are round his ankles. He knows where this is going, can feel Derek’s hands spreading him, cold against his skin, but it’s still a surprise when his nose brushes against his tailbone, breath gusting hot between his cheeks.

“Oh,” Stiles says faintly. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Derek noses between them, licks hot and wet over his hole, until Stiles is pushing back again, shaking and shuddering with every pass of Derek’s tongue. What he must look like, exposed and hard, leaking against Derek’s cabinet, pressing desperately back into his hands and mouth. He can hear himself begging in broken sentences: “please, I want – can you – _please_ , Derek – fuck, you –” His voice doesn’t sound like his own: breathless, desperate, overwhelmed.

Derek knows what he wants: he spreads him wider and fucks his tongue into Stiles’ hole, working it past the muscle, and his legs nearly give out at the feeling, warm and wet, _perfect_.

He’s too worked up, has wanted this for so long – years and years and years, a crush, then a longing, stretched out over time and space and distance. But now he’s here, finally has this, and he’s flying, his body is alive and singing, on fire with Derek’s touch, and suddenly he’s coming, untouched, soaking the cabinet and the hem of his shirt.

When he comes back to himself, Derek’s still going, lapping at him gently, even when Stiles whines and tries to move away. Carefully he turns around, stepping out of his jeans, cringing at the wet mess smeared across his skin.

Below him, Derek rests his head against Stiles’ thigh, panting hard. Stiles can only see the faint shape of his face, his eyebrow and cheekbone, and further down, his dick, a stark line in his sweatpants.

“C’mon,” Stiles croaks out, voice raw. “I want to see.”

Derek makes a strangled sound. When he takes himself out, Stiles’ mouth goes bone dry. His dick is uncut, hard, swollen, and Stiles wants nothing more than to get his mouth on it but now’s not the time; this time he wants to watch Derek come all over himself.

Derek’s hand is moving slowly, tentatively, like he’s on edge already. Stiles can see the wetness glistening at the tip, growing with every stroke. Derek mouth at his skin, mumbling something, so Stiles slides his hand into thick hair to tilt his face up, to reveal the long line of his throat, his wide dark eyes, the flush riding his on his cheekbones, the sweat beading along his brow. And his _mouth_ , red and slick and swollen; Stiles touches it reverently, presses his fingers in, past teeth – and Derek’s hips hitch into his fist.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me.” He can’t take his eyes off the slick slide of Derek’s dick through his hand, wants to know what it feels like. “ _Jesus_ , your fingers. Next time – next time I want them in me. Want you to fuck me.”

Derek shudders, shakes, then he whines, and his head sags against Stiles’ hands as he comes in hot spurts over his fist.

For a long moment, the kitchen is filled with nothing but the harsh sound of their breathing, echoing off the cabinets and the tile. Slowly, surely, it quietens down, and Stiles feels steady enough to pull Derek to his feet, strips his t-shirt over his head and wipes them both down.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says.

Derek is quiet and pliant as Stiles leads him to the bedroom. His dick gives a valiant twitch at the sight of Derek’s bed, imagining him spread out across the dark sheets, but he’s too exhausted to do anything more than drag Derek to sprawl across his chest, head tucked into his neck.

He likes Derek like this, loose-limbed and heavy-eyed, a flush on his cheeks, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He likes that he can press his hand to the tattoo on Derek’s back, trace its whorls and feel him relax muscle by muscle against him.

Derek’s beard tickles his skin as his mouth moves. “Is this – are we –”

Stiles knows exactly what he’s asking. “I’ve been thinking about you for years,” he says. “Even when you were gone, when I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I couldn’t let it go. I thought I’d missed my chance for –” He forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought I’d never get to say how I felt, the things I wanted. And then there you were, in the grocery store. Buying your fucking mango.”

The breath Derek exhales against his skin is shaky. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles curls his hand into Derek’s hair and tugs until he lifts his head, until Stiles can see his face: his bright eyes, his beautiful smile, everything he’s ever wanted and now has, right here in his grasp.

“You came back to me,” he says. “There’s no way I’m letting you go again.”

 

 

Before Stiles has time to blink, the break comes to a sudden, unwanted end. Derek comes to see him off. His beard is growing out, and the lines around his eyes are starting to deepen, and Stiles wants nothing more than to pack him up and take him back to Los Angeles with him.

“How long will you be gone?” Derek asks as he watches Stiles heave the last bag into the trunk.

“Couple of months. But I’ll be back for Dad’s birthday.” Stiles glances sideways at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “And you should come visit me. It’s only a couple of hours away”

Derek looks surprised, uncertain, the way he does when he isn’t sure where the boundaries of their relationship lie. “You sure?”

“Of course. I mean, I can’t promise it’ll be a glamourous experience. My roommate’s kind of weird.”

Derek snorts. “You’re weird. I manage fine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles grumbles, “That’s because you love me.”

For a second, Derek looks like he’s going to deny it. But then a smile appears at the corner of his mouth, delicate and blooming, and the only thing Stiles can do is hook his hand around Derek’s neck and reel him in.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the curtains twitch, but he ignores it, opens Derek’s mouth up with his tongue, kisses him wet and filthy. Derek’s hands curl around his hips, fingers digging in, and he steps in closer until he’s pressing him back against the jeep. Stiles is seconds from throwing him down on the ground and having his way with him when Derek pulls back, panting, to rest his forehead against Stiles’ so that they’re sharing breath.

“Come back soon,” he says.

“I will.” Stiles presses a kiss to the smile lingering at the corner of Derek’s mouth. “I’ll always come back. So long as you’re here.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _All The Wilderness_.


End file.
